Pitch woke up in an unfamiliar place.
She blinked and sat up in bed. A roll of wet cloth fell from her forehead.
She picked it up and held it in her hand…then slowly, she looked around the room.
There were many beautiful furnishings: upholstered chairs and footstools, gilded wooden tables, and a great wardrobe, decorated with gold leaf.
“I wonder…whose room this is,” Pitch thought to herself.
A maid entered the room, carrying a pitcher and washbasin on a tray. “Lady Goldtree…you’re awake!” she exclaimed. “How do you feel? Would you like something to drink??”
“…No, thank you,” Pitch said quietly. “I feel…fine.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful! I’ll run right down and tell the Master— you stay right where you are, Miss; don’t move a muscle!”
The maid left the tray on a dresser and dashed away. Pitch watched her go…then hopped out of bed and went after her.
She felt a bit disoriented as she walked through the palace…she wasn’t sure where she was or what was going on. But for some reason, she didn’t feel anxious about it at all. She knew that her current state of confusion probably wasn’t ideal, but she couldn’t think of any particular reason to worry about it…so she didn’t.
Soon, she forgot about trying to follow the maid, and wandered aimlessly through the halls. She stopped by a row of windows to gaze at the majestic landscape on the other side.
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“Mountains…I used to live in the mountains,” she said to herself. “Yes…I’m sure of it.”
“…Margaret??” called a voice from behind. She turned around.
A man stood there in the hallway: a young man, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore a simple, yet elegant outfit, dominated by a brilliant red coat.
Pitch stared at him. “Margaret…yes, that’s me,” she said. “Who are you?”
The man narrowed his eyes, in a way she found vaguely familiar. “You…don’t remember?” he asked.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever met you before, sir. Although…your voice does sound a bit…” she trailed off.
The man sighed deeply, and stepped forward— by the light, Pitch could see an amber brooch pinned to his tie.
“…What is the last thing you remember doing? Before you woke up today,” he asked.
Pitch started to say something, then stopped. She thought for a moment…for the first time since she had opened her eyes, she tried very hard to make sense of what was happening.
And she found it surprisingly difficult. It was as if the entirety of her memory and awareness were wrapped tightly in a bundle, with several yards of knotted string. It would take some time to undo all the knots…but she managed to loosen one or two.
“…My stepmother,” she said finally. “This is…my home. Where I grew up…I was coming here to take it back. With Zellandine, and her knight, and…Azor…”
The man raised his eyebrows. “That is the last thing you remember?”
“Well…I think so. Is it wrong…?”
“No, it isn’t wrong…but it was seven years ago.”
The man showed Pitch to her stepmother’s grave: a smooth, rectangular slab of polished stone, sunken into the ground next to her father’s.
“There’s been a fever going around,” he explained. “She died from it last year…and you’ve just recovered from it, apparently.”
“…Oh,” said Pitch. “So…she and I were living together here all this time?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a bit surprising. I…remember being pretty angry with her about something.”
“‘Something’…”
“What? Was it important…?”
“…I don’t think there’s any point in explaining that now. Perhaps another time.”
Pitch folded her arms, bracing against the evening breeze. “You still haven’t told me who you are,” she said. “Let me guess…my stepmother remarried?”
“Don’t be disgusting.”
“Oh my; well then…I guess you didn’t like her very much either. But I know you must be the ‘master’ that maid spoke of…so if you aren’t her husband, then whose—”
Pitch stopped short, her eyes growing wide in astonishment. Then she began to laugh.